The Devilish Montague (7 page)

When she lifted her skirts to step over a puddle near the horse trough, he cupped her elbow and assisted her over, even though he was the one who could barely stand. She glanced at him in incredulity when he continued to rant as if his fingers weren’t still gripping her arm.

“You would ensnare yourself as well as me in my family’s coils,” he protested. “And for what? A featherbrained fowl?”

He was protecting
her
from her own actions? What kind of man was this? Not one her experience would allow her to believe.

“Percy is from a rare and ancient lineage and should be treated with the respect of kings,” she informed him. “He should not be fed ale and carried about at dawn. Really, if there were a bird police, the duke would be shot for leaving Percy with his nephew. Mr. Ogilvie is a spiteful sort who probably pulls out Percy’s feathers when no one is looking.”

She tried to ignore the strength of Mr. Montague’s hand clasping her elbow, but now that the treacherous notion of marriage had taken root, she couldn’t help thinking of his strong, capable hands elsewhere on her person. That made her a trifle uneasy, but not enough to give up.

She would do anything to provide her small family with the home they deserved. What good was a fortune if it could not create happiness for the ones she loved best?

Mr. Montague emitted the long-suffering sigh she’d heard from countless men over her twenty-three years. She had innumerable arguments to counter those sighs, but she was tired of spouting them. She had her own wealth now. She didn’t have to care what men thought.

She really, really loved that freedom. She owed Lady Belden her life. She shouldn’t flout the lady’s wise advice so hastily. But she had already set this wheel in motion, and she couldn’t seem to stop.

Perhaps a man who argued with her as if she had thoughts of her own, instead of ordering her about as if she were a beagle, excited her hopes. Then again, she suspected Mr. Montague simply liked to argue.

“You don’t care about Percy.” She halted on the far side of the stable and climbed up on a mounting block so she could meet Blake Montague eye to eye. He did not look his best after a night of carousing, with his icy gray eyes shadowed, his black hair tangled, and his jaw covered in heavy whiskers. Despite his general dissipation, he’d just assisted her over a mud puddle while she was threatening him. She knew his type—all blazing arrogance, but with the social graces so ingrained he couldn’t cut them out with a knife.

“I think the bird ought to be shot,” he agreed, not in the least intimidated by her stance. He crossed his arms over his powerful chest, his broad shoulders pulling his shirt linen taut beneath his unfastened waistcoat. The lack of neckcloth revealed more of his bronzed throat than was respectable. “But I promise not to shoot it. I just want the thousand pounds Ogilvie offered for its return.”

Jocelyn straightened her shoulders and clenched her fists at her side. It was a good thing she seldom took time to ponder her decisions or she’d run screaming into the woods, never to be seen again. “Ogilvie lies. He does not have a ha’pence to his name. Lady Bell’s man of business has already advised us that he lacks funds. He lives off his uncle’s goodwill, which is why he wants the bird back, even though he despises Percy.”

Montague scowled so blackly that Jocelyn feared he’d frighten the sun into falling. He had understandably been counting on such a large purse. To his credit, he refrained from uttering the curse that was so blatantly on the tip of his tongue.

“You cannot be faulted for believing him,” she offered generously. “Men are inclined to believe in the honesty of their fellows. Unfortunately, women cannot be so sanguine, or we fall victim to scoundrels. Lady Bell says investigating potential suitors is good business.”

“I’ll keep the blasted fowl until the duke pays up,” he growled.

He was about to turn on his heel and hobble off, which was what she really ought to let him do. He’d be willing to give Percy away soon enough. But that choice did not solve her long-range difficulties. Nor his, come to that. Annoyed that she should even remotely consider his problem, Jocelyn daringly grabbed his lapel and tugged him back. “You do not have the bird!”

He captured her hand to pry it loose but hesitated when he caught sight of her expression. Perhaps she was demonstrating her desperation a little too forcefully. “Lady Bell’s man of business also confirmed that your father would provide his Chelsea home for your use if you marry a wife of whom he approves,” she said, before releasing him.

“My parents want me to marry a woman they’ve chosen,” he corrected. “And my father will surround the settlement with all sorts of disagreeable stipulations.”

“I have already met the approval of your parents,” she countered. “Unfortunately, Lady Bell has rejected you due to your propensity for violence.”

Outrage hardened his already harsh features. “I don’t wish to hear more. If you will excuse me—”

Jocelyn sighed as she watched him stride—or hobble—away. Blake Montague was a fine figure of a man, admittedly, but probably too hardheaded—and much too smart—for her purposes.

And yet, if she wanted a house, Montague was the best opportunity to cross her path. She simply needed to come up with terms they could both accept—and that would include allowing Richard to live with them. Really, she should have thought of a soldier sooner.

Blake would rather take a hot bath and fall between the sheets than change into dry clothes and venture out again, but his instincts warned him that preventive action was required. Curse and damn all interfering females! He couldn’t believe a helpless twit like Miss Carrington could maneuver him into an unconscionable position, but he would take no chances.

Propensity for violence, be damned! He was no more violent than any other man he knew. Well, perhaps more violent than Ogilvie. Or Nick. Or . . . No matter. He had no desire to be
forced
into marriage because of a lot of twittering gossips, even if they included his family. And he had a strong suspicion that was precisely what Miss Carrington was set upon.

He suffered an appalling thought—had she learned that Carrington House could be his? There would be no stopping her, if so, no matter how his father tied up the deed.

If he was to be married, it would be on his terms and no other’s. He’d rather risk enlisting than fall under the thumb of still another nervous, smothering female who would take to heart his mother’s foolish superstition about his impending death.

After finding Ogilvie’s valet to help clean and bandage his toe, Blake winced while pulling on shoes. His boots were now unwearable. Breakfast was still not on the sideboard by the time he took the stairs and pounded on Hoyt’s door.

Lord Quentin Hoyt was a younger son of the new Marquess of Belden. He’d come to London over a decade ago to make his fortune and had done so. The rest of his very large family remained in Scotland, where they continued to live modestly—because the dowager Lady Belden had inherited all of the late marquess’s unentailed wealth. Fortunately, the Hoyts had little interest in society beyond allowing Quentin to provide for his sisters and nieces as they reached marriageable ages.

Scorning the traditional roles of the younger sons of society, Quentin had gone into shipping and secured funds of his own during his untitled years. Until his father had come into the marquessate, society had scorned Quent for his ambition. Now, he purported to act as his father’s London liaison with the dowager marchioness. Blake assumed Quent had finagled an invitation to the house party just to annoy the lady because tradesmen wouldn’t normally be invited to dirty a duke’s parlor.

In Blake’s cynical observation, his friend seemed to enjoy challenging the tart-tongued Lady Bell. At the very least, Hoyt knew her better than anyone, which made him a good man for the advice Blake needed.

Lord Quentin answered the knock himself. Dressed in a silk banyan, his jaw already shaved, he quirked a dark eyebrow at Blake, which told him Quentin had already been briefed on the morning’s events.

Once inside, Blake limped up and down the chamber, organizing his arguments. “Lady Bell is matchmaking,” he declared, still furious in so many ways he could not direct them all. “And this time,
I’m
Lady Bell’s bait,” he declared with disgust. “Worse yet, I’m discarded bait. She believes I am violent.”

Quentin snorted and returned to the writing desk, where he was apparently working through a stack of documents requiring his signature. “I’m amazed she considered you bait at all. If Castlereagh is still here, he’s even less likely to listen to you than before, if he hears of this latest escapade.”

Blake winced, but it was far too late to appease the war secretary.

“I simply need to get my hands on more of that blamed French code before I can crack it,” Blake argued. “I have to be in Portugal, where messages might be intercepted. To hell with Castlereagh, I need colors.”

“You don’t need a damned code. You need a woman, someone like that nice, malleable Carrington chit.” Quentin’s head jerked up, and a gleam appeared in his eyes as he finally caught the direction of the conversation. “Has Isabell rejected you as a match for her latest protégée?”

“So I understand. I was not even aware I was under consideration. I’m more inclined to shoot the birds Miss Carrington collects
.
It’s not precisely an obvious match.”

Quentin leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and sprawled his long legs across the carpet. Blake knew he ought to run and hide, but out of curiosity, he waited to see where his friend’s mind would wander. For the sake of England and his future, he hoped Quent would find a way of returning him to the Continent.

Quent’s large family had lived on breadcrumbs for decades and couldn’t afford to be particular about their offspring going into trade. In contrast, Blake’s conservative-minded father had a solid country income and no need for his sons to work anything except the fields. Unless he wished to completely alienate his family, Blake could not scandalize them by becoming a merchant. He wasn’t the kind of cruel bastard who would jeopardize his sisters’ chances in society, but marriage seemed an unnecessary torture to submit to for his family’s sake.

“The Carrington wench possesses a fortune of a thousand pounds a year. You could do worse,” Quent said thoughtfully.

“She shot me in the foot! What woman does that?”

“She carries a gun?” Quentin asked, raising a dubious eyebrow.

“It was my gun. She does not behave normally,” Blake quibbled, his toe still aching from the incident. But he knew better than to belabor the point and went on to the next. “I just want your aid in diverting Lady Bell while I distract my mother before they concoct a scheme that will embroil us all.”

“Considering the compromising circumstances in which you were found . . .”

Blake gestured dismissively. “She stole a bird! There was nothing compromising about our argument.”

“Women do not necessarily look at things the same way we do. Does Miss Carrington express an interest in marriage?” Quentin asked, the dangerously thoughtful look still on his face.

“What does it matter? We would not suit,” Blake argued.

Even he knew he protested too much. But he was feeling trapped and harried and desperate, and wanted someone to tell him he had alternatives.

Quentin narrowed his eyes. “No woman would suit you unless she was a camp follower. And I suspect you’d be too fastidious to accept even that relationship.”

Blast the man! That wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “It hardly seems fair to leave a woman alone at home while I follow my duty to the Continent. If I had any other means of obtaining more of that code, I might consider marriage, but the army is my only hope.”

“Admittedly, Miss Carrington is a trifle pale and delicate,” Quentin said, staring at the ceiling. “She would no doubt dissolve with grief should you leave her.”

“Pale and delicate? Are you mad? Are we talking about the same woman? She’s a damned dangerous Venus!” Blake bit his tongue. He hadn’t meant to admit that.

Quentin returned his gaze to study him. Blake felt like an insect caught on a pin.

“What if your marriage to Miss Carrington thwarted Lady Bell, bought your colors, and gave me the satisfaction of matching another of my friends with one of Isabell’s protégées?”

Blake’s foot ached and his soul rebelled. “You would make Miss Carrington miserable for the sake of annoying Lady Bell?”

“On the contrary,” Quentin mused, smiling like a cat with a canary, “if I gauge her correctly, Miss Carrington would very much like a husband who will conveniently remove himself to the Continent.”

Blake didn’t like the sound of that at all. It had taken him years to admit that marriage might be the only solution to his perennial bankruptcy. He’d wasted additional time contemplating the best wife for his purposes. Harebrained and bird-witted weren’t part of the qualifications he had considered.

But he had yet to find a wealthy woman with intelligence who was willing to accept an impoverished younger son, and Miss Carrington certainly did not lack in physical charm.

And Miss Carrington would not grieve should he manage to get his head blown off in Portugal, as long as she had the dratted house.

 

With Percy well fed and hidden safely in the carriage, Jocelyn changed into her travel gown and began a discreet search for her quarry.

Lady Bell would be down shortly, they’d be on the road soon, and she had not yet found any of the dratted gentlemen. They were no doubt all sleeping off the effects of last night’s indulgence. She was almost relieved she did not have to face Mr. Montague again, but she could not seem to get the foolish notion of marrying him out of her head.

A masculine hand caught her elbow and dragged her from her search of the breakfast room. She recognized Mr. Montague’s treacherously earthy scent of horse and leather. He’d found her first.